Gog (Lost Civilizations: 4)

Novels by Vaughn Heppner

The Ark Chronicles:

People of the
Ark

People of the Flood

People of
Babel

People of the Tower

Lost Civilizations:

Giants

Leviathan

The Tree of Life

Gog

Behemoth

The Lod Saga

The Doom Star Series:

Star Soldier

Bio-Weapon

Battle
Pod

Cyborg Assault

Planet Wrecker

Alternate Europe Series:

The Doomfarers of Erin

Dead Man's Moon

The Dragon Horn

The Assassin of Carthage

Other Novels:

The Great Pagan Army

The Sword of
Carthage

The Rogue Knight

Invasion: Alaska

Strontium-90

Gog

(Lost Civilizations: 4)

by Vaughn Heppner

Copyright © 2010 by the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

Prologue

The First Hunt

“A man is known by the enemies he keeps.”

-- Lord Uriah, Patriarch of Elon

The sun burned in the heavens as sweat dripped from the gaunt tiger of a man.

Far-ranging beastmasters hunted him, sending their beasts. He had slain many of them, but two still remained—an orn and an eagle. The eagle floated in the sky. Its steel-shod talons were like mirrors, flashing with reflected sunlight.

The man—Lod—squatted under a broom tree, hiding in its miserly shade. Scars marked his body. Dust coated his lips. His only garment was a tattered tunic knotted around his loins. He had tangled white hair and a beard, and his feverish blue eyes burned like some desert prophet on the verge of divination.

The sun’s hate baked this desolation. The six-foot broom tree, with its shriveled brown leaves, towered over the plain of yellow grasses. In the distance, heat rose to create watery-like haze.

Besides water and more rest, Lod needed a chariot and horses. He needed a lance or javelins.

A premonition turned his head. He squinted, quit breathing and rubbed his eyes. He blinked to clear the grit, and studied the distant haze. Something tall moved out there. It seemed… those might be arms waving, or stubby, useless wings flapping.

It was the orn, an eight-foot flightless bird, a predatory beast. Orns were tougher than sabertooths, and more relentless than dire wolves. Lod knew it was the beastmaster’s creature because it had black feathers. Wild orns were brown-feathered birds.

Lod touched the jeweled scabbard at his side. Its sword was Bolverk-forged, or at least, the blade was. Once, it had been a giant’s dagger. He had killed the giant, taken the blade and later affixed a new grip, one sized to fit his hand. Only fools fought an orn with a sword, however. A spear would be better, preferably four spears hurled by four fellow hunters.

Lod dragged a sweaty forearm across his lips. He tasted the salt on his skin. He didn’t want to leave the shade. For seventy days, the sun had cooked him. His flesh had burned and peeled many times. On foot, he had crossed the Kragehul Steppes. It was also known as Giant Land. To stem his gnawing hunger, he had eaten roots and stuffed moss into his mouth. He had pounced upon mice, moles, and with fire, he had driven sabertooths from their kills. He had slurped muddy water, drank blood and licked morning dew.

Was he now going to wait in the shade for the orn to come and slaughter him?

Lod scowled, recalling Ut stepping on his back. It was likely that the beastmasters were from Shamgar. Thinking of that, Lod surged to his feet.

The eagle’s screech drifted to him then.

Lod studied the soaring creature. He needed a bow, a sling or for the beasts to make a mistake. He needed high ground or trees, preferably many of them. He turned west, studying the horizon. Somewhere out there the Huri Forests touched the grasslands. He had endured these seventy days, hoping to reach the trees. He would worry how to slip through the enemy forest later. Right now—

Lod shook his head, and he took his first step out of the shade. His calloused foot fell onto hot soil. There must be a bounty on him, a high one. Two years ago, he had killed an Enforcer while escaping Shamgar. That was sacrilege to those of the blood. If someone managed to drag him to the swamp city…his death there would be agonizing and brutal.

Despite the seeming futility of it, Lod began to run.

***

Later, Lod wiped stinging sweat out of his eyes as he wheezed lungfuls of air. Sweat poured from him, rolled down his sunburned skin and made his feet slick. He stood on a stony ledge fifty feet above the orn.

He’d reached an oasis of boulders. In desperation, he had climbed a sheer rock face. Now, the orn had him trapped up here.

The beast cocked its horse-sized head and opened a heavy beak. The eight-foot orn had a white crest and white tips to its stubby wings. The rest of its plumage was glossy black. On the steppes during these grim weeks, the wild orns had brown and yellow feathers, with a scattering of white mottling. They had also been less savage and perhaps two thirds the weight of this hunting beast.

This orn limped back and forth, its talons scraping flinty soil. What caught Lod’s notice were sparks. The talons sparked on the rocks
because the claws were iron-shod
.

Lod looked about for a rock or a stone to pelt the orn. If the orn kept him trapped here long enough, the beastmasters with their slayers would arrive to kill him at their leisure.

Lod shuffled along the narrow ledge. It was seven feet long. There were some chest-level stones wedged into the cliff. Lod pried at the stones, trying to move them. Sweat poured from him as he worked.

Lod cocked his head then. He heard indistinct voices. His gut clenched at the sounds. It seemed his enemies had arrived sooner than he’d expected. Then one of the indistinct voices broke into a shrill cry of delight. It was high-pitched, a woman’s voice.

“Look!” she squealed. “There’s an eagle feather.”

Below him, the orn turned its grotesque head in the direction of the voice. Nephilim beastmasters could often hear through their creature, and could often see what it saw. By the orn’s manner, it presently seemed to be under direct beastmaster control. With stilted steps, the monstrous black orn strode toward the voices.

“There’s orn over here!” Lod shouted in warning. “It’s about to attack you!”

As Lod shouted, he crouched, turned around and slid his pelvis onto the ledge.

The hidden woman cried out again, this time in terror. A man shouted, and the orn screeched its hunting cry.

As Lod lowered himself, his cheek scraped against hot stone, with his toes and fingers searching and digging for precarious holds. He heard a bow twang. A second later, the orn hissed. Then it screeched a pain-maddened cry. Moments later, bodies brutally collided. A man cried out in agony, and the woman shrieked in soul-searing horror.

Lod bellowed, and he pushed off. The ground rushed up, and struck with a terrific blast against his bare feet. He rolled, and the orn gave another challenging cry.

Lod hobbled. His feet ached, but he stumbled toward the sounds. He clenched a fist-sized rock in his hand. As he rounded a boulder, a tragic scene slammed upon him.

A man, a primitive by his fur garments, lay on the ground. The orn lifted a bloody beak from the man’s chest, while a talon clutched the man’s legs. With a terrible gulp and the snap of that beak, the orn gobbled up a ribbon of man-flesh. The woman, also a primitive, with black hair, and a flint-tipped spear in her hands, stalked the orn. Tears streamed down her face as blood poured out of the man’s horrible chest wound. The man had to be dead. Yet at that moment, the man feebly raised his arm, as a flint knife fell from his fingers.

The orn hissed, and it bent its huge head, opening the beak for another morsel.

The woman charged, as did Lod. She charged, with her lips peeled back as she screamed. Lod realized that she meant to drive the spear into the monster. A brave although reckless hunter might have rushed in close to make a furious cast at short range, or a hunter might have made a one-armed jab, keeping his distance from the beak and those slaying claws. The woman charged flat-footed, gripping the spear with both hands, no doubt meaning to run right up, thrust the flint-tip deep into the creature, and possibly drive the orn off the man. Was it
her
man?

The woman’s courage ignited Lod. He roared a battle cry, and he heaved the rock. It sped like a sling-stone, and knocked the orn on the head, dazing the mighty creature. A heartbeat later, the woman thrust her spear into the feathery chest. The orn shrieked, and it staggered away, stopping some fifty paces distant, panting. Two arrows already stuck out of the orn’s breast, one of them deeply driven in.

The woman fell to her knees, cradling the primitive’s head and weeping over him.

“Get up!” shouted Lod. “The orn is still alive!”

The woman stroked the primitive’s forehead. The man lifted his arm, and she grasped his hand. Their fingers intertwined. As Lod sprinted for her, the man and woman’s fingers tightened. The woman began to sob. The man moved bloody lips, even as blood pumped out of his ruined chest.

The orn took a drunken step toward the pair. These monsters had incredible vitality. They were almost akin to pythons in their refusal to die. The orn squawked and lurched into a staggering step.

“Get up!” shouted Lod. A fight was never over until you killed. It was a simple lesson he had learned as rat bait. Didn’t this woman know better?

The woman hunched over the man as he shuddered convulsively. Lod reached her, and with brutal strength, he tore the woman from the man. She shrieked, and she clawed at him, tying to rake her fingernails across his face. Lod recognized the tactic from the canals. Instead of jerking away, he embraced her with a crushing grip, not giving her room to rake him. She was light, and he realized then that she was young.

The orn screeched, spraying its own blood. Despite its stagger and with the arrows and the spear embedded in its flesh, it came on fast.

“You must avenge your man!” shouted Lod.

The woman quit struggling. Lod tossed her onto her feet, grabbing her hand. She ran in a mindless gait, her eyes glassy. Where had her courage gone? She had just attacked the orn. Lod glanced over his shoulder. The beast gained speed. Perhaps the thrill of the hunt eased its hurts. Then, its legs couldn’t keep up the rhythm. The orn staggered, and with a sad cry, it pitched onto the rocky soil.

Lod released the woman’s hand and warily retraced his steps. The orn kicked its legs, struggling to rise, making odd rasping sounds. With a bound, Lod jumped near that murderous beak and cut the orn’s throat. He leaped away equally fast. Orns were dangerous until dead. As blood flowed out of its throat, the beast deflated. The muscles relaxed, and the painful wheezes quit.

The woman had returned to her man. She knelt, with his head on her lap as she stroked his face. Her shoulders shook as tears dripped.

Lod stood transfixed by the sight. He had seen many deaths in the canals, many rat bait sicken and die in the sheds at night. Seventy days ago, his friend had died. Lod had buried him in the grasslands, but he hadn’t cried, hadn’t shed tears. He had been a good friend, one of his only friends. The warrior of Elon had helped him escape Shamgar. Now that he considered it, Lod had never seen anyone cry over another person’s death. The woman’s tears… Lod found himself envying the dead man. No one had ever wept for him. No one had ever stroked his face with tenderness. Except for his friend, he had always been alone.

Lod scowled. How did stroking the man’s face help him now? The man was dead, dead and alone.

Lod turned to the beast, and wiped his blade on the feathers. He inspected the iron-shod claws, and he moved neck feathers, finding an iron collar. The etched script was indecipherable. He looked up at the eagle floating in the sky. He had to do something about it. Yes. One of the primitives had a bow.

He approached the woman. She still cried. Lod slowed, and a strange thing occurred. He became conscious of how little his tatters covered his loins. He also realized the woman was beautiful. Her tanned legs and arms were much darker than his skin. She had a mane of black hair, and the curve of her neck….

Lod turned away, embarrassed by his reactions. He frowned, unused to uncertainty, and unused to a catch in his throat. Why should he feel this way? Bah! He didn’t have time for foolishness.

He studied the eagle wheeling in its never-ending pattern. Why keep the eagle overhead if the beastmaster didn’t mean to track him? How long until the beastmaster arrived? Lod whirled around and approached the dead man. The woman ran her slender fingers through his hair. Flowery bracelets decked her wrist. The flowers looked nice on her brown arm. Lod tore his gaze from her arm and spied a black bow. A flint-tipped arrow lay where the primitive had dropped it.

As Lod picked up the bow and arrow, the woman lifted her head. Tears streaked her cheeks, and her dark eyes had become puffy. Her beauty struck him like a blow, one that he had little practice parrying. He could have looked at her for hours. He might even like for her to touch his cheek as she had touched the dead man’s face. Then, he become aware that he stared at her, and he became aware again of how nearly non-existent his rags were. It caused a strange feeling in him. Lod turned away. The strange feeling felt good. And yet, it made him feel vulnerable. He hated that.

Lod raised the bow, yanking back the string as he sighted the eagle. It was a high shot. He pulled the string harder, stretching it back farther.

“What are you doing?” asked the woman, her voice hoarse.

Lod eased tension from the string, stirred by her voice. “I’m going to shoot down the eagle.”

When she didn’t respond, he glanced at her. She stared at him, her eyelids blinking rapidly. He had the impression that she tried to engage her mind, but that grief weighed too heavily in her.

“That’s Uzal’s bow,” she said at last.

“I’m only borrowing it,” Lod said.

She glanced at the eagle and then back at him. A tiny “v” creased between her eyebrows. “You mustn’t slay the eagle.”

“It’s a beastmaster’s bird.”

“No!” she shouted. “It’s an eagle.”